


big enough to hold your love

by Kandiszucker (whatwhy)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Horny with Dark and Religious Overtones, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 04:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatwhy/pseuds/Kandiszucker
Summary: Martin, with his troubled mind and volatile thoughts, refuses to believe that he loves Mads, and he refuses to believe that Mads loves him. But Mads is nothing if not patient.





	big enough to hold your love

The first time Martin meets Mads is in the office. Mads is on the Academy team, so their paths hardly ever cross, even though both teams have their scrims at the same office. Mads’ shape alone is intimidating - his shoulders are twice as broad as Martin’s - but he’s humming a little melody with that deep voice of his, which does sound a bit silly, Martin thinks.

Mads disappears through the door. He hasn’t noticed Martin.

 

And then, out of the blue, Mads is replacing Maurice. He’s standing in the door frame, dwarfing Martin. His face, just like his body, looks like roughly hewn marble, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, and a kind smile tugging at his lips, and a gentleness in his voice that instills a fuzzy kind of peace in Martin. He stretches out his hand in a way that makes Martin wonder if he grew up a much thinner boy and never got quite used to his new shape.

 

What would it be like to touch Mads? It is a silly thought, but Martin imagines his chest to be as hard as granite. When Mads hugs him after their match, he is surprised to find that Mads feels warm and soft and  _ human _ . Mads arms around him feel safe. As though Mads could shield him from any harm coming his way. Martin doesn’t want the hug to end.

 

But not even Mads can stop the troubles that come from within. One night, it all gets too much. Martin is too much Martin for his liking, and his ineptitude to cope with the world is getting on his own nerves, and he needs to get out of there, whatever  _ there _ means - the team, the house, his mind, his body - and his fingers are itching.

Mads holds his hand and rubs his back as he lies on the cold bathroom floor, chest heaving and cheeks sore from his incessant sobbing. He has no tears for tonight anymore, but Mads’ soothing voice in his ear makes him thank the stars that he did not have the heart to go through with whatever rash idea he’d had.

Mads only mentions that night only once afterwards, when he tells Martin that he thinks he should get a therapist. His silence on the matter is not a shameful one, but rather an understanding one. That night had been terrifying, arduous, torturous, but it had sparked an intimacy between Martin and Mads that Martin has never known before. Not even with Fabian.

 

Consequently, he feels something for Mads that closely resembles love. But that’s not what it is. At least not romantic. Still, it is so easy to seek out Mads’ company after scrims, even though Mads has the hobbies and the habits of a grandma. It is so easy to get lost in his aquamarine eyes. It would also be so easy to reach out and hold his hand. But Martin never does.

 

There is, though, no such thing as privacy in a gaming house. It isn’t even an entire house that they have to themselves, only the upper two floors of a recently renovated apartment building. The walls are thin as parchment - how there have been no complaints from their downstairs neighbors is a miracle - and there is precisely one bathroom for seven people.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting set of scrims, Mads forgets to lock the door as he goes to take a shower. Martin, with similar intentions and similar focus, doesn’t knock before he waltzes in. Mads is stepping out of the shower. The droplets on his body look like dew, and the fog does nothing to hide Mads. Martin’s eyes inevitably dart further down before he fixes them on Mads’ face again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs and flees the bathroom. The rest of the apartment is cold compared to the humid heat of the bathroom, but it does nothing to cool down Martin’s reddened cheeks.

Try as he might, Martin can’t forget about the incident. What he’s seen follows him into his dreams at night, and then into his dreams by day, leaving him confused and ashamed and afraid. He doesn’t like Mads like that, he tells himself. He doesn’t like  _ men _ like that. He only touched Fabian the way he did because he was too desperate and too hormone-crazed and too curious for his own good. What if Mads thinks he’s gross?

What if he really likes Mads like that?

It is not a possibility, he tells himself firmly. In no universe. But he has tasted the forbidden fruit, and he is losing what was left of his paradise over it.

 

As Martin quarantines himself from Mads, Rasmus seems to be getting closer. Where Martin doesn’t touch Mads’ arms, doesn’t hug him from behind to surprise him, doesn’t tug on his sleeves excitedly to show him something fascinating, Rasmus does. Sweet, little, innocent Rasmus keeps hogging Mads’ attention. Martin tries to ignore the pangs of anger whenever he catches the two of them being touchy as best as he can. He grows restless and irritable, almost like on the days leading to that night. He loses sleep.

At least he won’t see a disrobed Mads in his dreams anymore.

 

The World Championship leaves him feeling emptier than before. He almost wishes he hadn’t gone at all and saved himself the embarrassment. To add insult to injury, Mads is busy cheering up Rasmus when Martin finally emerges from the stage.

The strange sadness this sight gives him follows him all through November and December. Has he scared Mads off for good? He shouldn’t have been so distant all the time. He needs to fix this, to show Mads he’s still interested, but management has just offered him his own apartment. Martin mulls it over. Eventually, he decides in favor of his own bathroom and his peace and quiet at night. He doesn’t like Mads like that anyway.

But when he steps into the office and Mads greets him with that bright grin of his, and pats his shoulder, and pulls him into a hug, and is so Mads, Martin regrets his decision just a tiny little bit.

 

Even though the season is in full swing, Mads grows more and more distant. The entire team does, really. Martin makes no real effort to return to their intimacy, outside of the board games and other bonding activities Joey foists upon them, at least. He’s not sure if his purposeful isolation stems from the sadness that shrouds everything he does and is these days, or from his adamant refusal to even  _ think _ about the possibility that his fondness of Mads could be anything but chaste friendship.

His masculinity is safe, but it comes at a price. Rasmus has Mads wrapped around his finger ever so tightly.

It’s alright, Martin reassures himself, as long as the rift between him and his teammates does not affect their performance. He pulls himself together, heavy though his heart and acidic his mind may be, and the team’s success is thunderous for a short while. But not even a month after the fanfare has faded away, the team is in comparative shambles. Everyone’s eyes turn to Martin. His blood freezes in his veins for a second as he thinks they are about to pounce, to slit his throat, to tear the flesh off his bones, to crack his skull and rip apart his skin, because all of this is his fault, his fault, his, but then he remembers that he’s still the captain, and they are just waiting for a few words of solace.

He mangles them so that he doesn’t understand them himself Even Rasmus has stopps hanging on his words in that naive and revering manner of his that would be endearing if it wasn’t the same naivete and revery he always treats Mads with, too. Mads coughs. Gratefully, everyone turns their attentions to him, Martin included.  The way he carries himself exudes calm and warmth, and just a few words of his soothe his teammates. The coaches smile down at him.

Martin wonders why he still bothers.

Mads sits next to him on the shuttle back home. Martin is busy ignoring his rapid heartbeat when Mads leans down to whisper in his ear.

“You’ve seemed so down lately.”

Martin looks up at him. A faint hope stirs in his heart, to his never-ending shame.

“I don’t really want to leave you alone tonight.”

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t going to do that again.”

Mads scrutinizes him. “Maybe. But I still don’t want you to be so sad and lonely all the time. You just saw where that got us. You’re as much part of the team as Paul and Gabriël and Zdravets and Rasmus and me, and you wouldn’t want one of us to feel lonely and helpless either, right?”

Of course he wouldn’t.

“There you go. Of course you don’t have to let me stay at your place, but please talk to me if things get as bad as last year, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you so much.” Martin closes his eyes and just barely resists the powerful urge to rest his head on Mads’ shoulder. “You don’t mind if my place is a bit dirty, right?”

Mads shrugs. “That’s alright.”

Martin believes him until he unlocks his apartment door and the stench of three weeks’ worth of dirty dishes, dirty socks and dirty air hits them. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll clean that up real quick. Haven’t really had the time to do that yet…”

Mads nods, although Martin knows he doesn’t believe him. “I’ll help you.”

“No, you don’t have to!”

“But I don’t know what else to do with myself.”

Martin relents. He’s pretty sure Mads cleans more of his apartment than he does himself, and his guilt is gnawing at his core, but at least his floors aren’t sticky with grease and grime anymore. Mads is standing next to him, a kitchen towel in his hands, as Martin finally does his dishes. He offers no remark on the angry cloud of fruit flies that rises from the drain of the kitchen sink as Martin turns on the water, and if he is disgusted with Martin for letting mold grow on his china, he doesn’t say so. Martin, personally, has a hard time keeping down the bile rising in his throat. What a disgrace he is for allowing things to become as bad as they are! But Mads smiles at him and pats his back when the last plate is stowed away in the cupboard.

“You did it!”

Yes, Martin realizes, he did it. It hadn’t been as insurmountable a task as he had convinced himself. And it is not just his apartment that is presentable again at last. He has cleaned up a part of his soul as well.

They are sitting on Martin’s freshly vacuumed couch, close enough for Martin to feel Mads’ warmth. The movie they had been watching is over now, and the only sound that fills the apartment is the rhythmic splish-splash of the laundry. Martin hesitates to disturb this peace.

“Thank you,” he says at last.

Mads looks up from the laptop on his knees. “Oh,” he replies. “No biggie.”

He doesn’t even begin to understand how much he’s saved him again, Martin realizes, although it was a more subtle salvation than  _ that night _ . In turn, Martin doesn’t even begin to understand the luck - or was it maybe pre-ordained? - that placed Mads in his life. He half suspects him to be something above human. Perhaps the embodiment of kindness. The embodiment of love. A guardian angel or something. But does Martin deserve one?

 

Whatever miracle Mads had performed that night carries onto the rest of the team. Martin leaves his hermitage, and Dylan and Joey welcome him back as their lost son. Paul, Zdravets and Gabriël greet him as their brother, and Rasmus latches onto him with unbridled reverence. It is almost as though they had missed him in his absence. Did they thank Mads enough for returning Martin to the living? Martin decides that from now on, he will personally make sure that Mads is rewarded for his every service to the team.

 

They are back on Martin’s couch, but the warm serenity has been replaced by something darker. Something more carnal. Oblivious though Mads may usually be to the urges of the flesh, tonight he fidgets and clears his throat and watches Martin through the corners of his eyes, and even though Martin doesn’t like Mads like that, his hand ends up on his knee. On his thigh. In his lap.

Mads’ nude form is even more beautiful now that he reveals himself to Martin on purpose. His skin glows supernaturally in the blue light of the laptop screen. Martin finally touches him the way he’s yearned for ever since he’s seen Mads naked for the first time, and he kisses Mads just like the couple - equally disrobed - on the screen kiss each other. Mads is milk and honey, and the way he pulls Martin closer against his chest has Martin renouncing everything worldly.

“I’ve never done it with a guy,” Martin confesses. “At least not all the way through.”

But Mads will absolve him, if he just worships him ardently enough. Even in the throes of lust, Martin thinks, Mads looks as angelic as ever.

Mads holds him close as the movie credits end and the screen - and the room - turns black. It takes a while for Martin’s eyes to adjust, but the rise and fall of Mads’ chest and the sound of his heartbeat are all he needs to remind himself where he is. Where he belongs. They kiss again, and without the frenzy of lechery, Martin has time to savor the sweetness.

“I think I like you,” Martin whispers.

Mads looks amused. “I think I like you too.”

The washing machine howls as it spin-dries the laundry, and then it goes silent.

 

Martin is proud of himself until Mads leaves in the morning. Does he really like Mads? Does he not merely cling to him because Mads is the only person in the world who takes pity on him? At least that would mean Martin isn’t gay, but after everything that Mads has done for him, the thought of using him as a crutch disgusts Martin so thoroughly that he wants to throw up the breakfast Mads had made him eat. Even though the final verdict is eons away from being spoken, Martin is convinced of his guilt. He doesn’t deserve Mads, so he tells him to stay away from him.

Mads doesn’t have the decency to get angry at him.

 

Martin is back in his hermitage, but this time his hermitage is limbo. Officially, he’s benched, but he doesn’t have the split off. Sometimes Dylan and Joey still summon him to the office to practice with the others, but he might as well do it from a PC bang at the end of the world; Mads doesn’t look at him, so neither do the others. He wonders if they would truly miss him if he was gone.

He tries his best to keep his apartment clean, but it takes a week for the flies to return to their ancestral home in the kitchen sink. Thank God Martin doesn’t have to look at them if he never leaves the bed.

 

The bell rings. Martin curses whatever devil is making him get up at the ungodly hour of two in the afternoon, but still opens the door. Mads is standing there, an apologetic look on his face and a Tupperware container full of Joey’s food in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you wanted me to leave you alone, but I was getting kind of worried about you.” He almost falls over when Martin tackles him with a hug.

Martin straddles his hips and pulls his shirt over his head. After all, he has to thank Mads, right?

But Mads holds his wrists in a tight grip. “You don’t really want this, do you?”

Martin hesitates.

Mads gently pushes him off his hips. “I’m not really in the mood, either.”

What he is in the mood for, though, is hugging Martin to his chest and showering him with tiny kisses, each a small arrow piercing Martin’s flesh, until he bursts into tears.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whimpers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

And Martin spits out the poison that had been bubbling in his head for so long, spits and heaves until he is empty. But it is a different kind of empty than in those lonely nights when he wasn’t sure if he was even human. Martin is a blank slate now, ready to fill himself with anything Mads is willing to give him.

Mads is rubbing his back. “You know what you’ve said about yourself isn’t true, right? You deserve help. Everyone does. You deserve friends, you deserve love, you deserve happiness.” And, more quietly, “You deserve me.”

Martin looks up at him skeptically.

Mads sighs. “Look, if I were in your place, and struggling like you are, wouldn’t I deserve help?”

“Of course you would!”

“Then so do you.” Mads takes his hand and squeezes it, not to hurt him, only to remind him that he is there. “You’re worth just as much as me.”

And just for tonight, Martin is willing to believe him.

 

Martin still has bad days from time to time. But Mads is there now - perhaps till death does them part. Mads, who pushes Martin out of his bed, under the shower, to the kitchen table. Mads, who loves Martin just as much as Martin loves Mads. He can finally admit it now. And Martin knows, at last, that he’s worth something to someone - if he forgets, Mads is always happy to remind him.

Martin has retrieved his paradise lost.


End file.
